Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on the use of words – and a hidden word in the Book of Esther

Have you ever criticized someone not for what they said, but for what they didn’t say? We often see this when someone delivers a less-than-heartfelt apology: ‘I’m sorry you were hurt by what I said.’ Such words do not constitute a true apology. Rather they simply pass off responsibility to the person who was hurt. However, if one were to say, ‘I’m sorry for saying something so hurtful towards you’ – that would indeed be an apology.

In other situations, it might not be as important for someone to be so forthright in their language. For instance, when speaking to a relative after a death, one might consider it insensitive – or even hurtful – to keep reminding them of their loved one’s death. Instead, when speaking with a mourner, we often use more euphemistic language: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Everyone knows exactly what that ‘loss’ is, so there’s no need to use more vivid or painful language.

The use and intentional exclusion of certain words can be both productive and harmful. Our early rabbis understood this dual nature of language and taught it through the metaphor of fire, which can be both productive – by providing warmth and healthy food – and harmful by threatening total destruction. The rabbis taught that the Torah is written as ‘black fire upon white fire’, that is, the black letters of the Torah and the white spaces in between are both seen as fire. It makes sense that the written words of Torah can be seen in that way, capable of inspiring passion and offering sustenance, while holding the potential to burn those who struggle with its teachings. But the rabbis also teach us that sometimes we need to look deeper into the Torah to understand what is not being said explicitly, but rather what can be understood through critical reading. In these instances, the white fire of the Torah can be even more profound than the black fire.

This philosophy stands out most dramatically in the Book of Esther, which we read at our Purim service and celebration, as the Book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that does not contain the name of God. So, if God’s name isn’t in the Book of Esther, why is this text included in the Bible? Well, drawing on the metaphor of black fire on white fire, the rabbis teach us that God actually is present in the text – just in hidden ways. In fact, the name Esther itself means ‘I will hide.’ Of course, this ‘hiding’ could refer to the fact that Esther hides her Jewish identity from her husband, the king, but the rabbis prefer to see the name Esther as an allusion to a verse in Deuteronomy, in which God says, ‘I will hide my face’ from the Israelites at a later time (Deut. 31:18). The Bible explains that Esther’s real name was Hadassah (Esther 2:7), which may not seem so significant at first. But the rabbis say this name alludes to a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘Hadas (myrtle) will rise up and be to God as a name.’ (Isaiah 55:13). In other words, the name Esther may be a placeholder for the name Hadassah, which in turn is a placeholder for the name of God.

Finally, there is yet another way in which the name of God may be hidden in the text of Esther. There is a tradition to write the Megillah so that the first word of almost every column is ‘HaMelech,’ which means ‘the king.’ On the surface, each use of HaMelech clearly refers to King Achashverosh. But on a deeper, mystical level, each HaMelech might be a hidden reference to God, who is also known by this name.

So, is the name of God really absent from the Book of Esther? Technically, yes. But in reality, I don’t think it is. One could easily read the story of Purim and conclude that God played no role in our victory over the wicked Haman. But the rabbis teach us not to be so quick in making this assumption. And more importantly, the rabbis are actually trying to teach us not to be so quick in assuming that God doesn’t play a role in our lives today. Just because we can’t see or hear God doesn’t mean God isn’t there. Rather, God is hidden in our world, and we are all tasked with figuring out how best to reveal God’s presence. Who knows, you might find God in nature, in our traditions, or even in the words and actions of our everyday heroes.
Chag sameach!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to recognise optimism in the light of the Chanukah candles

According to the Talmud, God created humankind on the sixth day following Rosh Hashanah. As that first autumn progressed, Adam noticed that the days were getting shorter – that there was a decreasing amount of light in the world – and he worried that the world was coming to an end, and so he observed an eight-day period of mourning. But then, shortly after midwinter, he noticed the days began to lengthen once more and that this must simply be the way of the world, so he observed an eightday period of celebration, lighting candles each day to contribute even more light to the world. And thus, Adam laid the foundation for what would eventually become our celebration of Chanukah.

Of course we do not understand this story to be factual, yet it still speaks to a profound truth in life: that light and darkness – joy and pain – ebb and flow independently of our own actions. And just as every night is followed by the dawn of a new day, so too all periods of darkness eventually give way to brighter days.

This truth applies to each of us individually: dark clouds of depression at some point give way to renewed feelings of happiness and hope, and highs of elation in turn are supplanted by struggles and pain. It is therefore paramount – especially when all hope seems lost – to remind ourselves of this cyclical nature of life.

And this truth also applies to us collectively: our people will experience periods of safety and prosperity as well as periods of worry and strife. The very recent past has reminded us far too well of this fact, and so now, more than in a long time, we must remind ourselves that this too will pass.

This year, like last, many of us may have struggled to decide whether to position our Chanukah candles in the window where they could be seen by others (and therefore draw attention to ourselves as Jews) or to place them somewhere more discreet inside our homes. So, I encourage you to consider our sages’ portrayal of Adam that first winter following Creation: do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by the prospect of darkness, but celebrate this celestial reminder that brighter days are awaiting us. Why not hasten their arrival by contributing as much of our light as possible?

Cantor Paul Heller officiated at a moving rededication in Austria

Earlier this year, the Government of Lower Austria and the Institute for Jewish History in Austria invited me to participate in the inauguration of the restored synagogue and old cemetery of St. Pölten, about 40 miles west of Vienna, where my paternal family comes from.

Jews have been part of Lower Austria’s population for over a millennium. In the Middle Ages, they primarily lived in imperial cities where they found legal and economic protection, enabling the rise of a local Jewish bourgeoisie. However, by the late 15th century, most towns were judenfrei due to campaigns of persecution. Only Vienna retained a small Jewish community during the 16th and 17th centuries. In the 18th century, partial toleration policies led to a Jewish return, and by the 19th century, there was renewed immigration, with Jews settling in St. Pölten, the capital of Lower Austria, and its surrounding towns, as well as in Vienna.

In March 1938, Austria was incorporated into Germany. The Anschluss was greeted enthusiastically by the majority of the population. Persecution of the Jewish population commenced soon afterwards and then came 9 November 1938, Kristallnacht (‘Night of Broken Glass’), pogroms that were particularly brutal in Austria. Most of the synagogues in Vienna and elsewhere, including St. Pölten, were destroyed and the cemeteries vandalised. The events of that night were not just an attack on buildings but a devastating blow to a vibrant culture and community that had flourished for centuries.

In the following decades , it became clear that restoration and preservation of Jewish sites in Lower Austria were important to local communities, as well as to the museum sector. A large investment was made by the government of Austria in recognition of the profound tragedy that Kristallnacht and subsequent persecution had inflicted upon the Jewish community.

The restored synagogue and memorial at the destroyed cemetery of St. Pölten reverberate with the history and heritage of my family and others. As we stood together, participating in their inauguration, we felt that the act of restoration was more than a symbolic gesture. It was a testament to resilience, to the endurance of memory, and to the importance of reclaiming heritage. The ceremonies served as a powerful reminder of the importance of honouring history, especially in places where that history had been so violently interrupted. I was struck by the mixed emotions of the participants, mostly descendants, who came together from across the globe – joy at the revival of sacred spaces, tempered by the sombre remembrance of those who were lost. We were joined by local dignitaries, uniting people of diverse backgrounds, to honour the memory of our ancestors who had faced unimaginable hardships, with presentations that still resound in our minds.

The gathering instilled in all of us a sense of responsibility to preserve the lessons of the past. In this way, the synagogue and cemetery are not just relics; they are living memorials that breathe life into our shared history and identity. The work done by the Institute of the History of Jews of Austria (INJOEST) under Dr Martha Keil has brought to light what would have remained in the archives.

Standing together, the air filled with prayer, reminded us that the roots of prayer and the tradition surrounding it are at least as important as the text itself. We reaffirmed our commitment to tolerance and understanding, for it is vital that we should all learn from our history to prevent the repetition of such atrocities. The legacy of those who endured the horrors of the Holocaust must continue to guide us, reminding us of the importance of fighting against hatred and discrimination in all forms. The Central European experience of antisemitism, directly linked to the history of fascist and socialist regimes, is also linked to post-war amnesia and socio-political negligence. So it will not suffice just to arrive at reconciliation and to open up closed narratives about Jews. The institutions set up to implement the restoration, preservation and conservation of locations where the desecrated synagogues and cemeteries once stood, and the cultural authorities responsible for the protection of monuments, can be used to educate future generations with exhibitions, workshops and cultural events. In Austria, under the guidance of INJOEST, we can hope that with God’s will, despite recent worrying political trends, truth and peace will prevail.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to take a more relaxed approach to the High Holyday services

Ever since I was a young child, I have loved going to synagogue on the High Holydays. Not so much for the religious or spiritual experience – I only learned to appreciate this aspect of the holydays well into adulthood. I also didn’t love my parents forcing me into an itchy woollen suit or constraining necktie, but I still loved going to shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I loved sitting with my family in the balcony, where I had a perfect view not only of the rabbi and cantor, but the choir and organist as well. Best of all, I had a perfect vantage to see which of my friends were sitting where, whose hat and jewellery was the most ostentatious, and who dozed off during the rabbi’s sermon – all sights that brought me much joy.

But despite these decidedly nonreligious aspects of attending High Holyday services, my favourite memories are of standing between my parents, singing beautiful and familiar melodies in an unfamiliar tongue, and just feeling like I was connected to something much bigger than myself – to the hundreds of other Jews in the synagogue, the millions of other Jews around the world, and the myriad generations that came before me who all enjoyed the same experiences.

In short, there are many reasons to come to synagogue on the High Holydays. Some people come for the music while others come for the sermon. Some people come to connect with their friends while others come to disconnect from the demands of life. There’s no one reason to come to shul on the holydays and no reason is better – or more legitimate – than another.

In Judaism, we often speak about the three kinds of relationships we enjoy – with others, with God, and with ourselves. The only reason for coming to synagogue that matters is the one that helps you connect on a deeper level with any or all three of these relationships. But just coming to synagogue isn’t always enough to effectively achieve the connection you seek. You may very well arrive at shul with the best of intentions, but end up feeling lost in the liturgy, turned off by the language, or befuddled by the rituals. But this does not need to be the case.

If you find yourself in services feeling more distant from God, others, or yourself compared to before you walked through the doors, then try mixing things up. Don’t worry about doing the holydays the ‘right way’. Don’t worry if you’re on the wrong page or if you fail to bow at the proper time. Those things don’t matter – they’re only there to help you in your quest to connect. Instead of giving in to feelings of foolishness or inadequacy, try using those moments to empower yourself by finding your own way to connect. Flip through the pages of the machzor, find a passage that resonates with you, and take some time to meditate on ways to embody the themes of that text. Close your eyes and allow yourself to get swept away by the singing of the cantor and choir. You could even come prepared by bringing along a beloved book that might help you achieve clarity of thought.

There’s no one right way to ‘do’ High Holyday services, just as there’s no one right reason to show up in the first place. My only wish for you is that, by joining us at Belsize for the High Holydays this year, you’ll find your own, meaningful way to deepen your connection with the relationships that matter most.
Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick reinterprets a surprising Rabbinical teaching

As I sit down to write this piece, my desk is flooded with the sunlight that took far too long to arrive this summer. The rays pull my attention away from the task at hand to appreciate the beauty of nature, which had been obscured by months of clouds and rain.

Of course, I’m not the only one reacquainting myself with the magnificence of the natural world – it seems everywhere I go in London these days there are people enjoying aimless perambulations, afternoon refreshments at outdoor cafés, and the company of guests in their gardens. In short, summer has finally arrived and nearly no one is taking it for granted.

You might therefore be surprised to learn that our sages teach that it is forbidden to stop and smell the roses – as it were. In Pirkei Avot (3:7), Rabbi Shimon says ‘If a person is walking along while revising their Torah learning and interrupts themself to say, “how beautiful is this tree or field,” it’s as if that person has committed a capital offence.’

At first glance, this is an incredibly troubling teaching – how could it be so severe an infraction simply to admire a beautiful vista?! The Vilna Gaon explains this teaching by way of another, found in the Talmud (Baba Batra 79a), in which Rabbi Yonatan quotes Proverbs in order to say that anyone who separates themselves from Torah study condemns themselves to the pits of death. In short, for the rabbis, Torah is so important that it cannot be set aside for any matters other than physical or spiritual survival, and to them the appreciation of nature is certainly trivial in comparison.

However, I believe our sages are wrong here and miss the point of Rabbi Shimon’s teaching. The issue isn’t with someone interrupting their Torah learning to admire their surroundings – the issue is believing that such an act is disconnected from their Torah study.

In Psalm 92, which we recite every Shabbat, we say: ‘How great are Your works, Adonai! Your plans are beyond comprehension.’ That is, our tradition provides us with language to express awe and wonder at the impossibly complex grandeur of the universe. The challenge is to remember the One who created such beauty whenever we are so moved by it to take notice.

With the summer months lying in front of us, we will certainly find ourselves in moments of pastoral bliss. I invite you to use those moments not just to say, ‘how beautiful is this!’ but to allow yourself to contemplate the wonder of it all and to acknowledge the unfathomable source of that beauty.

Pesach remembered – and hope for the future: Cantor Paul Heller on the words that conclude our seders

Residing in Jerusalem for two years during my twenties,and proudly bearing an Israeli ID with Jerusalem listed as my city of residence, I grappled with the city’s rich religious diversity. My encounters with texts in our liturgy helped me to believe strongly in the significance of praying for Jerusalem’s place in the world.

Allow me to elaborate further, albeit within the constraints of this page: in my daily prayers, in the context of Zechariah’s prophecy and the longing for the day when God will be One and His name will be One, I am convinced that that day will become possible.

At our Passover Seders, as every year, we raised the bread of poverty, the matzah, and sang Ha lachma anya: we invited all those who wish to join us to come and sit at our table, a reminder that we are not alone. From the tones of Vehi sheamda to the joyful melodies of Chad gadya, the Seder evokes a range of emotions, reminding us of the trials and triumphs of the Israelites’ journey to freedom.

Music serves as a bridge, transcending words, and inspiring unity in diversity. Whether through the liturgy, traditional hymns, folk melodies, or contemporary compositions, music has the ability to foster empathy, understanding, and dialogue among communities divided by decades of strife.

At our choral concert in memory of Henny Levin on 14 April in our beautiful sanctuary, the words from Isaiah 57:19, Shalom lekarov ve lerachok amar Adonai (Peace to the near and far, says the Lord) were sung. This is a call to all of humanity. As we hope for peace in Jerusalem, Ir hashalom, the city of Peace, let us remember that Shalom is also one of God’s names, therefore the translation of Ir hashalom is also ‘The city of God’. In the final moments of the Passover Seder, as we sing the traditional refrain L’shanah habah b’Yerushalayim, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’, there lies a profound message of hope and inclusivity that extends beyond geographical borders. This statement, while rooted in the historical longing for return to the homeland, also serves as a call to action for global solidarity and empathy with all who yearn for freedom and peace.

‘Next year in Jerusalem’ takes on added significance this year. It becomes a prayer not only for the physical return to a sacred city but also for the restoration of harmony and coexistence among all inhabitants of the region. Regardless of nationality, religion, or ethnicity, this aspiration speaks to a universal desire for a future where individuals can live with dignity, security, and mutual respect.
The vision of peace in Jerusalem becomes a powerful medium for expressing shared hopes and aspirations of peace, not just for Jews. In the Middle East, where conflict often drowns out the voices of hope, our liturgy and music can serve as a powerful reminder for reconciliation and healing, not only for the Jewish people but for all.

Let’s sing again, with all our heart – L’shanah habah b’Yerushalayim –
Next year in Jerusalem!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick focuses on a Jewish leap year

When I was a child, I wondered what it would be like to be born on 29 February. I figured it would feel rather special to have such a unique birthday. But then I worried it would mean you could
only celebrate your birthday every four years. One could settle most years for an annual ‘birthday’ party
on some random day, which didn’t seem fun to my young mind. Then the big concern would hit me: what
about birthday presents? Would you receive only a fraction of the gifts that your friends at school would get? And when your friends would all celebrate turning 16, would you still be just a mere four years old?!
As you can see, the concept of leap years used to send my developing brain into hyperdrive.

With this year being a leap year, this question recently – and unexpectedly – came back to my mind. As it so happens, not only is this a leap year on the secular calendar, but it’s also a leap year on the Hebrew calendar. But instead of adding just one extra day to the year, we get a whole extra month!

The secular Gregorian calendar is a ‘solar’ calendar, based on the time it takes the Earth to orbit the sun – approximately 365¼ days. A lunar calendar, on the other hand, is based on the cycle of the moon, which takes roughly 29½ days to fully wax and wane. A lunar year consists of 12 lunar cycles – or 354¹⁄3 days – which makes a lunar year rather shorter than a solar year, so holidays based on the moon’s cycle shift every year in relation to the secular calendar. For example, because the Islamic calendar is lunar, Ramadan can occur some years in the winter and other years in the summer.

So what about the Hebrew calendar? This is where things get confusing. While Judaism is indeed focused on the cycles of the moon, we actually follow a hybrid ‘lunisolar’ calendar. This means our months are based on the moon while our year is based on the sun. By combining these two systems, we are forced to find a way to resolve the 11-day disparity between the lunar and solar years. This is how we arrive at the idea of a leap month. In every 19-year cycle of the Hebrew calendar, there are seven leap years, during which we add an extra month, Adar I, in addition to the usual Adar, which becomes Adar II. During these leap years, the holidays can feel later than usual, as they might fall nearly a full secular month later than the prior year. This is why we may often find ourselves saying, ‘Rosh Hashanah is late this year’ or ‘Chanukah is early’.

Adar, of course, is the month in which Purim occurs. But in which Adar should we celebrate? The answer is Adar II. In fact, during a leap year, we must wait until this additional month to celebrate anything that occurs in Adar. Were you married in Adar? Lucky you – you get a whole extra month to find the perfect anniversary gift for your partner!

What happens to the Torah reading cycle in a leap year? Well, we still need to complete the full cycle by Simchat Torah, but now we have an extra month, which means we have to break up the Torah portions a bit differently. You may have noticed we sometimes read a ‘double’ portion, such as ‘Acharei Mot-Kedoshim’. During a leap year, these portions are split, meaning we read ‘Acharei Mot’ one week and ‘Kedoshim’ the next. And with 54 unique portions in the Torah, there are numerous ways we can merge or separate them so that the Hebrew calendar will always work out just right.

I realise all these numbers and variables might have your head spinning by now. But if you’re like me, then you too might think it’s pretty amazing how our tradition gives us so much to think about. So, this year, while the rest of the world gets to consider the implications of a single leap day, we get to ponder the wider complexities of a whole leap month. If only I had known about these things when I was a child, my imagination really could have run wild.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick introduces a new ritual for Tu B’Shevat

At the start of Mishnah Rosh Hashanah, we learn that there are not one, but four, New Year days in Judaism. We are most familiar with Rosh Chodesh Tishrei, which is not only the first day of a new month but also marks the anniversary of the world’s creation – Rosh Hashanah. The first of Nisan marks the New Year of Kings. Every time a monarch is in power, when this day comes around, we add another year to the measure of their reign. The first of Elul is the New Year of Animals: any animals born after that day are considered for a separate tithe year from those born before. And of course, there’s Tu B’Shevat, which marks the midpoint of the rainy season and is celebrated as the New Year of Trees.

Just as no single day can claim to be the one, true, New Year in Judaism, so too no single day can lay claim to the ritual of Seder. Of course, whenever people hear the word ‘Seder’, most will automatically – and rightly – associate it with Pesach and the festive meal. But the word ‘Seder’ simply means ‘order’ and is used to describe any ritual meal that follows a prescribed order of blessings and traditions before the main course. Another holiday that is celebrated with a Seder is Rosh Hashanah, when – before reciting HaMotzi – we bless a number of symbolic foods, whose names are used in New Year-themed puns. This is the origin of our eating apples dipped in honey: that we may have a sweet year.

But more relevant to this issue of Our Cong, there is also a tradition of holding a Seder on Tu B’Shevat. In this ritual – instituted by the Kabbalists nearly 500 years ago – we begin the festive meal by blessing and consuming symbolic fruits, nuts and wine, each corresponding to a different season of the year as well as various planes of our spiritual existence.

For winter, we drink white wine (symbolising snow) and eat nuts and fruits with inedible exteriors (e.g. walnuts, pomegranates, oranges), representing seeds lying dormant and how we might retreat into our homes and close ourselves off from others.

For spring, we add a drop of red wine to a glass of white – representing the first blush of seasonal colour – and we eat fruits with pits or stones, but that are otherwise fully edible (e.g. olives, apricots). These fruits not only remind us of how the ground is not yet fully thawed, but they also encourage us to identify parts of ourselves which we may be holding back out of fear of becoming too vulnerable.

The third part of this seder is based around a glass of wine that is equal parts red and white – reminding us of the vibrant colours of nature in the warmer months. At this point, we also eat a selection of fruits which are fully edible (e.g. figs, grapes) and represent the ways in which we might fully give of ourselves to others.

Finally, we arrive at autumn – for which we drink dark, red wine and consume no fruit. The hope is that, by the autumn of our lives, we have realized our full potential and embraced wholly our spiritual existence. For this reason, we have no need for the physical nourishment of fruit, as we aim to find total contentment through the Divine.

The Tu B’Shevat Seder adds no more than fifteen minutes or so to our holiday meal, but it leaves us with meaningful teachings that can come back to mind throughout the year as we marvel at the changing of the seasons and the natural world. While I certainly encourage you to try out this beautiful tradition on your own during one of your holiday meals (24–25 January), I also invite you to join us at Belsize Square on 20 January, when we will enjoy a communal Tu B’Shevat Seder during Kiddush, following our Shabbat morning service.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on how we can increase light in the darkness at this hugely difficult time

As I sit down to write this article, Israel is at war with Hamas and no one knows how things will develop over time or what the outcome will be, so I don’t wish to speak specifically to this topic. If I did so, I might be at risk of writing something that will be irrelevant by the time you have a chance to read it. However it has become clear that, regardless of how things pan out in Israel, the situation here at home in the United Kingdom is not quite what we had thought it to be. We have felt in recent weeks that the sense of security we have enjoyed here since the founding of our synagogue in 1939 might be a mirage. I personally have experienced worry walking through the streets of London, wearing my kippah, speaking Hebrew, or displaying any other signs of my Jewishness. This has led to my questioning whether or not it makes sense to light the Chanukah candles in the window, directly visible to passers by as our tradition dictates. My concern is that someone might see the candles and realise that ours is a Jewish home and do something foolish to harm or scare us. For this reason, rabbis throughout the centuries have taught that it is permissible to light the Chanukah candles inside your home, where the flames shine for you and your guests, out of sight of those who might wish you harm. While this certainly should be done in times where your Jewishness can prove to be fatal, thankfully, we are nowhere near that situation at present. Therefore we are left in a quandary.

What should we do this year as we celebrate the miracle of the oil and God’s providence over our lives? I think the answer lies within the candles themselves. There was a disagreement about whether we should start with one candle and increase the number each of the eight nights, or if we should start with eight candles and decrease the number of lights every evening, corresponding to the depletion of oil at the time of Maccabee victory. The rabbis concluded that the tradition should be according to the former opinion, which is how we light the candles today. The reason the rabbis gave is a phrase, ma’alin bekedushah ve’ain moridin, which means we only ‘increase holiness’. By increasing the amount of light shining out from our homes into the surrounding darkness, we are adding to the holiness of the world. I believe herein lies the answer to our conundrum, as we start to see an ever-growing darkness around us. Here in London we have two choices. We can either choose to add to that darkness by hiding our light, or we can stand up in defiance by lighting our menorahs in our windows for everyone to see. We will not only add our light to the darkness, but also let the world know that we, the Jewish people, will not allow ourselves to be intimidated into the shadows.

We associate our tradition of lighting the Chanukah candles with childhood, yet this year the candles will burn even more for us as adults. They are not a prelude to the exchanging of gifts but a proclamation of our strength as a Jewish people, the strength given to us by God, the greatest gift one could ever have hoped for. This year I encourage you to light your Chanukah candles in your window where they can be seen even if you normally don’t follow this custom. Hopefully, together, like the Maccabees, we can fight to bring more light and holiness into this darkening world.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on the benefits of forgiving those who have hurt us

Why is it so difficult to forgive others? This is a time of year when we are told that we must forgive people if they apologise to us, but sometimes the idea of forgiveness seems too difficult or painful. Besides, we are told that God will forgive someone if they apologise three times, so why open ourselves up to pain by doing something that God will do regardless?

A number of years ago, I was hurt by someone close to me. My entire world was turned upside down by their actions and I felt little but contempt – even hatred – toward them. I went out of my way to avoid this person and was overcome by anger whenever our paths crossed.

At one point, I took a chance and forgave them, only to be hurt once more. And so I decided that no utterance of forgiveness would ever leave my mouth again (at least toward this person). I convinced myself I was taking a stand on moral grounds and that I was doing the right thing by punishing this person for their behaviour.

But the thing is, the only person who was truly punished by my choice was me. I was the one filled with animosity and resentment. I was the one suffering from stress, worrying about when I might run into this person and what I would do or say. I was the one living with the nagging suspicion that maybe I was doing the wrong thing by not forgiving them.

And then one day, the inevitable happened. I was forced yet again to decide between forgiving this person or holding onto this grudge – and I cautiously chose to forgive them. While the process was slow and painful while rebuilding trust and learning anew how to navigate the terrain of our relationship, eventually things began to feel different. I was no longer weighed down by the emotional burden I had been carrying. I actually could feel a difference in my body as well as in my mind. In the end, Irealised it was far easier to forgive someone than to bear a grudge against them.

A while back, I read a news story about someone who, standingoutside a criminal court, publicly expressed their forgiveness towardsthe person who murdered their loved one. I was initially amazed by their willingness to forgive, but I also understood their choice, which they said was rooted deeply in their faith.

During the High Holy Days, we recite numerous times the 13 Attributes of God; invoking God’s compassion, patience, love and forgiveness. Imagine if we allowed ourselves truly to internalise these words when we say them – if we reassured ourselves that the best way to experience the Divine in our world is by extricating any hatred and resentment from within it. If the family of a murder victim can forgive their loved one’s killer, can’t we forgive those who commit far less severe transgressions against us?

We all agree it would be unthinkable for an adult to condemn a child to a life of punishment for wronging them. Instead through our patience, understanding and forgiveness, we give them another chance, showing the child that we believe they can be better, thereby encouraging their growth and maturation.
And yet, when we hurt others, even intentionally, we are behaving much like children – not fully aware of how our actions may impact those around us. With this in mind, it seems almost cruel to withhold forgiveness from those who wrong us, once we understand that the best motivation for growth is not anger and punishment, but love and forgiveness.

So this year, as we make our way through the High Holydays, I invite us all to embrace the idea of forgiveness. As difficult as it may be, I know it can make us all better people. And that is indeed what this time of year is about.